She smiles warmly. “I’d like you to come play at one of my venues, Ms. Harris. You’ve got the talent.”
“I don’t...like...do this.” I gesture around the bar. “It’s just a hobby, really.”
A sandy-haired guy with a cute-as-hell lopsided grin laughs as he comes up beside her.
“It seems like it should be a bit more than a hobby.” The way he casts his eyes over Elizabeth tells me she’s his.
I miss being someone’s.
Sensing my speechlessness, Elizabeth continues. “We’re just here on vacation, so here’s my card. It says “Bradshaw,” but just ask for Elizabeth Cantwell. We just got married—this is my husband, Ryan.” I shake his hand. When he pulls away, he hooks his arm around her waist.
I smile wide at the thought of next weekend’s nuptials. “Congratulations! My best friends are getting married next weekend.”
Ryan plants a soft kiss on Elizabeth’s head. “I hope they’re as happy as we are,” he says through a charming grin.
“It was nice to meet you, November. I hope to hear from you soon.” Elizabeth and I shake hands one more time before she and Ryan leave.
Still in shock, I wander to the bar.
The regular bartender, Dane, senses my daze. “What’s up, Ember? You OK?”
“Yeah, just talked with a woman named Elizabeth Cantwell. She wants me to do a concert or something. Anyway,” I shake my head, “you’ve got my money from tonight, right?”
He nods and waves an envelope. “I sure do. You want it all to go to DROP again?”
I nod. Delta Blue insisted on paying me when, two months ago, they got feedback that people were coming in “droves” to see me. I put up a fight, saying this was all just for fun, but relented when they agreed to send my money directly to DROP, in Rae’s name.
“Why don’t you just give it to Bo Cavanaugh yourself?” Dane says as he puts the envelope in the register.
Keep your poker face.
“You know Bo Cavanaugh?”
He chuckles. “Sweetheart, everyone knows Bo Cavanaugh. I meant, you could just give it to him here.”
I feel my face flush. “Here?”
“Yeah,” Dane drags a rag across the wet bar, “he’s been coming in here for like three or four weeks—”
“What?” Suddenly, I’m extremely lightheaded. Thankfully, an empty stool is nearby.
He stops mid-swipe. “Relax, Ember, it’s not like he’s a celebrity or something. Just a good-doer socialite.”
“No...no...that’s not it.” I lean over the bar, grab a bottle of tequila, and pour myself a shot.
“What’s this all about, Ember?”
The tequila sets fire to my insides. “Was he here tonight?”
“Of course he was, he comes in—oh. Shit.” Dane seems to be calculating something.
“What, Dane?” I stand and grip the bar.
“He’s the ex-boyfriend, isn’t he?”
“How’d you put that together?” I mindlessly twist the cuff around my wrist. “Never mind that, what were you saying before? He comes in and what?”
“He comes in just before your set and leaves right after. Every time. The first time I thought he was just late.”
My cheeks burn. “Was he here tonight?” Dane swallows hard. “Dane, was he here tonight?”
He nods.
“Shit.” I race away from the bar, knocking over the stool.
My heart is beating mercilessly against my chest as I run outside. Without thinking, I yell.
“Bo?” I look around, a few people turn in my direction, but most ignore me.
I circle the small parking lot, looking for signs of his car, or him. There aren’t any. He’s gone. As I stand in the middle of the lot with my hands on my hips, breathless from frustration, Dane comes outside.
I launch in, “What the hell? He’s been coming here for three or four weeks and he can’t come up and say hello? I would’ve liked to—”
“Whoa, what are you talking about? What happened with you two?” He grips my shoulders.
“Psh,” I huff, “you got four months?”
And, for no good reason whatsoever, I give Dane a rather horrible Cliff’s Notes version of our story. For the love of God, we have a story.
When I finish, we’re still standing in the parking lot and Dane has a stupid grin on his face.
“So?” I ask, bugging my eyes for effect.
“So,” he shrugs before squeezing my shoulders, “what the Christ are you doing here talking to me about this? Go get him.”
Forty-five minutes.
That’s all that separates me from Bo—if I decide to turn left. Home lies an hour and a half to my right. It’s a drive I’ve done every week for the last two months.
Left it is.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Buzz. Buzzzzz.